


Happiness, Where Are You?

by fromunderthegaytree



Category: My Beautiful Laundrette (1985)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Engagement, F/M, M/M, Quarter-life crises, References to Depression, kudos or ill bite your toes, this took too long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 09:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19885714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromunderthegaytree/pseuds/fromunderthegaytree
Summary: Taking place after the events of My Beautiful Laundrette, 'Happiness, Where Are You?' offers an insight into the lives of the various characters. After the drastic climax of the film, Omar finds himself abandoned by Johnny, left to take care of the launderette by himself while balancing a new relationship with Zaki's daughter. What actions are needed to return to the joy he once knew? Or is he past the point of return?





	Happiness, Where Are You?

Omar thought he was well-off, but why wouldn't he? He owned one of the nicest launderettes in south London, which the crowds flocked to. It wasn't your run of the mill laundromat which are often filled with broken-down machines and glassy-eyed junkies. No, this was supposed to be different, and it attained its goal. It was a doorway into another ethereal dimension that none of those working-class sods had ever seen. Or, so Omar thought. Maybe that's what it was - a slice of heaven - maybe it wasn't anymore. Lonesome and forgotten, the launderette remains abandoned - a product of his uncle's ambition and his clumsiness. It had lost its charm, and everything about it was, too. The yellow walls that made one think of honeybees and an argentina sun were now a tired yellow. The din of classical music ended, only to be replaced with an orchestra of cursing and arguing. Omar wanted to revive this dying dream of his, but he was destined to stay - Salim didn't want to help him out of this rut.

All the things that had seemed fresh and new now seemed banal. The launderette was the empty shell of what he supposed was his dream - which was to be prosperous and secure. This dream slithered out of its shed skin, leaving Omar with a cumbersome burden and a superficial fiancee. It wasn't that he disliked Anzra, because he did love her. Who wouldn't fall in love with the poster girl of all the qualities his father would've liked in a woman?

He recalled the time she visited the launderette with Zaki. Royalty among peasants, she wore a lavender peacoat over her sheer dress which exposed her light brown legs which waded through cigarette smoke. While Tania was beautiful, she carried a certain spunk and occupied hatred for her father and Omar. She never hid the revulsion she felt towards him, she even flaunted it. Anzra was the ideal doting wife, whose smile never contained any hidden sardonicism. Nasser suggested they couple as soon as possible, so Omar could settle down and discover the joys of relationships. It was only a month ago that Johnny had left, deciding to stray away from Omar and anything associated with him. The departure was sudden, as though it was only natural that they'd separate. It was desperation that drove Omar to propose, neither was it loneliness that forced him to abandon all hope of ever seeing Johnny again. He had no reason to marry her, except for the fact that he was beginning to appear suspicious to his relatives.

They seldom spoke before he proposed, only exchanging smiles and partaking in small talk. That didn't stop them from coupling up and buying themselves a rather nice apartment. It was only five months after Johnny left when Omar received a call from Anzra from work. He was running the launderette, watching a man wait for his few clothes to wash. The whites of his eyes were yellow, contrasting with the ruptured blood vessel in his left eye. The man trembled restlessly, nicotine stained hands gripping onto his own upper arms while he sat hunched over like some gnarled-back gargoyle. Omar could've sworn that he was chilled to the bone, even on a hot June day. The telephone from the back room rang, diverging his gaze over to the empty room. He expected it would be his father, calling to ask for more booze or to inform him that he needed to run groceries. Deep down, he thought about Johnny, whom he hadn't seen in what felt like decades. Yes, there was always that unrealistic possibility that he'd call - even after all that time. Hope was an awful thing.

Picking up, he spoke into the receiver, "hello?"

Without a moment's hesitation, Anzra began sobbing. It was a sound unlike anything he'd ever heard in his life, it was ghastly and uncharacteristic of the usually self-composed woman. "Omar..." she gasped, struggling to speak through the fit of sobs which seized her, "p-pl-ease, come home..." The sound of her crying made him go cold, and he knew how that man must've felt - frozen through.

"Anzra," he croaked, struggling with the sudden bout of anxiety which came upon him the instance he heard her voice. His fingers trembled against the cold plastic of the rotary telephone, so much so that he wedged the piece between his ear and shoulder in hopes that it would pacify his restlessness. "Tell me, what's wrong?" There was silence on her end, striking him mute with shock. Just as he thought to hang up, she began to cry softly. "You need to tell me what's wrong," he said, catching his fingers between the telephone cord.

"You have to come home, I can't say it now," she argued, with her words muddled by her quivering voice. She sounded ghastly, like some phantom with its voice spilling with unfathomable despair, one that Omar couldn't even begin to comprehend, even if he wanted to. "Do it! I'm not kidding..."

"Okay," he sighed, glancing out the door to watch the junkie transfer his clothes to the dryer while his body shook like a trembling aspen. "Just wait, and uh... try to calm your nerves, I'll be there, I promise." He waited for her to hang up before sliding to the floor. He managed to put on a display of level-headedness during their call, but he was just as much as a wreck as she was. Raising a hand just below eye-level, he studied the spasmodic movements of his fingers - the result of a caffeine crash and the unnerving phone call.

Once the man finished with his laundry load, Omar expected him to haul himself out of the launderette. But, even with fresh clean clothes in a large plastic bag, he simply leaned himself against the cold embrace of the machine until Omar cleared his throat. "Sir, you have to leave," he said, buttoning up his coat while keeping a safe distance away. Even with the junkies' eyes looking at anything but him, he felt as though he was to be attacked. "I mean it, you have to go," he insisted, his voice raising with unsuppressed frustration. Finally, the man grabbed his washing before shuffling out of the launderette and onto the street.

* * *

On their couch, Anzra was sleeping soundly as though there hadn't been any problem. All of her crying and sniffling began to fade away, useless and unimportant because she was alright. Her thick eyelashes were glued together with the crusty product of her tears, her nose and lips swollen and pink from the whole exertion of it. Their apartment was encased with silence except for her breathing which matched the rising and falling of her chest. As Omar reached to gently shake her awake, he spotted some foreign object on the stand next to the couch. Small enough to be mistaken for a pen, but too infamous to be mistaken for anything other than what it actually was. A pregnancy test.

Carefully, he picked it up, disregarding where it was bound to have been, he was too worried to consider cleanliness. There on the small screen, he saw the two dreadful lines. There was no subtlety about it, those two marks were bold and thick like writing ink. "Holy shit," he whispered, "fuck." He dropped the test, the plastic thumping against the shag carpet. Anzra made a noise as she aroused from her sleep, one of annoyance at having been awakened. Her eyes fluttered before taking in her surroundings, then she saw him with his shocked expression.

"Omar," she began, sitting up quickly like somebody caught sleeping on the job, "are you hungry? Do you need something?" She persisted on, forcing a wooden smile onto her reddened face. Her eyes glanced to the pregnancy test which laid caught in the carpeting, then back to Omar, whose expression was darkening by the second.

"You're pregnant, why aren't you crying anymore?" He swayed slightly before his hand took hold of the couch's arm which he settled himself onto. He found her sudden cheeriness bizarre, especially when she'd been crying a while ago.

"I don't know, I think it's just... I think I should be happy. We're having a child together, isn't it... good?" Beaming, she reached down to pick up the test. All of her dreams of becoming a mother were coming true, and there couldn't have been anything more blessed. "We should get married before the baby's born, though. I'll have to arrange a wedding soon, but you'll help me, right? I think it'll be one of the best weddings my mother's ever seen." She rambled, her eyes shining feverishly while Omar buried his head into his palms.

"We've only just gotten an apartment together, Anzra, I never thought... I never even considered proposing this year, let alone having a child," he countered, his voice choking back tears out of fear of appearing weak or callous. He should've been happy, not angry with himself, but he couldn't find any positive feelings. All of them were ugly, the kind that he would rather keep to himself. "I don't know if I want to marry you," he whispered; the words left his mouth with the efficacy of a sputtering car engine. He could barely force himself to say it, and he wished he hadn't. She only stared at him in bewilderment, wondering to herself whether she was seeing him for what he really was.

"I don't get it, you... you got an apartment with me, why would you do that if you didn't want to get married?"

"Getting a flat together is a living arrangement, not a proposal!" He cried out while hopping off of the couch. He began pacing around, his fingers stuck between his bottom teeth and lower lip. There wasn't any way he could ask her for an abortion, he knew that she wouldn't go through such a decision, and he didn't want to manipulate her in such a way. He just didn't want to get married.

"What do you propose we do, then?" She asked, flinging her arm over the arm of the couch, the test dangling from her careless grip. There was contempt in her voice, one that he had never heard before. But, it was deserved, so there wasn't much he could do. "Tell me, right now, what do you think we'll tell your father?"

  
Papa would've been disappointed to find out that his only son was throwing away some divine chance to carry out his legacy, and to have his own family. He'd figure something was wrong with his son, which was normal, because there never had been a moment where he ceased to insult him. He nagged him over his work ethic, his fashion sense and his choice in friends. But, to tell him that he was leaving his pregnant girlfriend, that'd be different. Salim, Nasser and his father would only see a rat in lieu of a man. He didn't have much left, so he'd have to hold onto his relatives. They were all he had left.

"Okay, fine. We'll get married, just... leave me alone for a few minutes," he sighed, managing to break out of the continuous pacing that he found himself needing to do. She stared at him, the same doe eyes that sent rushes of dopamine through his veins were filled with iciness. She had a right to dislike him. She left the room, heading to the kitchen to call her mother about the proposal. Her voice, suddenly jovial, spoke to her mother in perfect Urdu. And, Omar, in the other room, cried.

* * *

Pouring the liquor into two glasses, Omar's father looked at him with a smile. It wouldn't have been considered a smile if it were anybody else looking upon it, but he knew that he was happy for him, even with bloodshot eyes and only a ghost of a smile. That day was glorious for the both of them, or so Hussein thought. "My son, finally getting married," he said, pouring a few more ounces into his glass. He pulled the bottle back before screwing on its cap, all while maintaining a sleepy and happy look on his face. "You know how long I've waited for this day?"

"A long time, I'm guessing," Omar mumbled, grabbing the glass and sipping from it. The booze had a revolting taste, enough so that he considered the possibility that his father refilled it with rubbing alcohol. He hadn't brought out anything fancy, that was certain. "I don't know, I'm glad you're happy," he said, licking the alcohol from his lips.

"What's that supposed to mean, you idiot?" He glowered up at him from the bottom of his glass as he downed his drink.

"Nothing, papa," he shrugged, "just leave it..." Dubiously, his father shoots a sullen look, one that tells Omar that he isn't fooled. He should've known, his father was a socialist journalist, which meant that for most of his life, he had been conditioned to taking everything with a grain of salt. He knew that there was always something lurking beneath the surface, and his son's happiness was no exception.

  
"Omar," he pressed, setting his glass down onto the table. There was a sudden and unnerving silence, one that sent made the young Pakistani move uneasily on his chair. "Don't lie," he maintained a stern gaze as he swilled the alcohol until his eyes turned red from the mere burn of whiskey fumes.

"I'm happy, it's just that," he struggled for a moment, his lips pressing together only to fruitlessly emit any sounds. It was a futile act, which he understood. There wasn't a way to break the news easily, because there'd always be disappointment, perhaps even resentment felt by father. It didn't matter if he used bluntness to openly his disagreement with the marriage, or if he sugarcoated it in such a way that he sounded only mildly inconvenienced. He couldn't stall any longer, he'd have to tell his father now, before the lie became too elaborate. "I'm not ready," he muttered, averting his gaze and redirecting it on the train platform outside which he could scarcely see through the balcony rails. People, tiny dots against the landscape waited for their train, amplifying the sensation of being trapped.

"What the hell do you mean?" his father poured himself another glass, even if his drink was only half-empty. Over the sound of the liquid sloshing against the confines of the glass, Hussein sighed loudly, "my son finally gets to marry, but he's too busy running some bastardized laundrette." His father was never happy, there were only moments where he'd believe he was content, that all the elements of the universe had fallen into place, but those were only illusions. Omar knew that he could never truly honour his father, that when his father was bed-ridden, he wouldn't express his admiration and respect for all the progress his son had made. The thought tightened Omar's chest.

"It's not that. It's just, I feel like... I haven't reached my fullest potential, papa," he explained, leaning back in the cheap kitchen chair to see more of the platform. "I know there are great things that need to be done, but I just haven't done them." He turned away from the window, watching his fathers' lips purse in contempt. As he grew older, he began to look more and more like an ancient turtle - wrinkled and pale.

"You're going to miss the chance to be a husband and a father. Why do you obsess over cleaning the dirty laundry of strangers? You concern me, Omar..." Shaking his head, he stood up, his new glass in one hand, and the diluted piss-drink in the other. He couldn't fathom his son's ambition, only because of its direction. Why hadn't he become just as passionate about being a politician? Or a teacher? Or an advocate for change? No, his son had decided to invest in his brother's mistake. But, it was his fault. After all, it was him who had called Nasser, begging him to hire Omar. Now, he was paying the price.

* * *

As Omar turned the corner which led to Johnny's street, he could hear a mother's shrill screaming, chastising her kids for whatever trouble they had gotten themselves into, drowned out by the screaming, were a dogs' barks. The scenery was quite inhospitable, especially with the broken beer bottles lying in the gutters and newspapers dancing in the wind. Omar's new apartment was in a considerably nicer neighbourhood, one that didn't appear lost to time, and he felt almost silly walking in Johnny's neighbourhood.

Once he entered the premises, he made his way up to his apartment. The one with the colourful mural which had been painted by that penniless artist before Nasser and Johnny kicked him out. That same pressure which had weighed on his chest a couple of days prior, that nagging thought which consisted of his father's insatiability; but now, the ailment was caused by Johnny, his friend, who had left without saying goodbye. The departure hadn't been dramatic, but that never stopped it from being painful. Omar often looked back on that night, a week after Genghis destroyed the launderette and attacked Salim, that one night that he made him wistful. They'd been cleaning the launderette, attempting to restore all the damage done.

And Johnny, who'd been treating a particularly nasty cut that he'd received when sweeping leftover shards from the floor, stopped, and began to cry. Tears streamed down his face, flowing easily, without much more than a cut hand needed to prompt them. His bottom lip had trembled before dropping his hands. The blood had collected at his fingertips before dripping steadily onto the floor.

"Johnny," Omar had said, "wh...what's wrong?" Omar recalled the panic that had struck his heart, one that couldn't even be compared to anything else. He had stood there, useless and dumb, while Johnny wept into his hands. Softly, he had repeated his question, approaching him cautiously. The man had dropped his hands to look at him, his face smeared with his own blood save for where there were streaks of tears. "What did I do wrong?"

"I can't do this anymore, Omo, I can't..." And what Omar took as sleep deprivation had actually been the truth. The hard fact was, Johnny had been miserable running the launderette, and he couldn't force himself to do it anymore. That was what Johnny had told him later that awful night, while his bandaged hand rummaged through his things. But, it wasn't just the launderette that sickened him, but having to sacrifice his dignity and freedom to a family he didn't even know. There was something vile about how he had protected Salim from Genghis and the gang, even after he had sped over Moose's foot. No one was innocent, not even Salim. Was it worth risking his life for some bastard that treated him like a numb idiot? No, not even if it made Omar happy.

"Why are you quitting? I mean, we could still..." Omar's heart had sunk, wondering if there was any way to convince the other to stay. The launderette had only just recently become glorious, why did he want to leave so suddenly?

"It's not just that," Johnny interrupted, "I don't think I want to see you anymore." Johnny spoke with care, always constructing his sentences so that they'd be considerate and stern. Honest, but never rude. Even when he had told Omar that he didn't foresee a future with him, his tone was gentle. "I came to work for you because I missed you, Omo. But I never wanted none of this."

And that was that. They stopped speaking, and Omar had told Nasser and Salim that there wouldn't be anymore screwing or unscrewing. Screwing and unscrewing, was there a difference?

Standing in front of Johnny's apartment door, the thought of that night made Omar misty-eyed, but he hadn't been so misty eyed that night. He had cried like a little kid, bawling into his pillow in such a shameful way. He knocked on the door, warily listening for the sound of movement from within the apartment. Nothing. He knocked a couple of times, expecting him to awake from whatever nap he was taking to answer. But, just like his first attempt, there wasn't an answer. Down the hall, a door swung open, revealing some brittle old woman who appeared a second away from death. "Are you looking for Burfoot?" she asked, clinging onto the sooty walls for support.

"Yes, is he out?" he inquired. Maybe there wasn't any reason to worry, perhaps Johnny was only out. He hoped that he wasn't hanging around with the gang, but it wasn't a far stretch to assume so. He was flighty when it came to who he associated himself with. He had been his friend, then he had joined a gang, then he had left it to reunite with him... It terrified Omar to think about him spray-painting hateful slurs on somebody's car. 'Pakis out'.

"Oh, no..." she sighed, forcing on a weak but appealing smile, "he moved out a while ago. Sweet boy, he was." She walked over to Omar, her fragile body turning to and fro like a weak leaf threatened by harsh wind. "Don't ask me where he lives now, I don't know that, love." She stopped just before him, peering up with cataract clouded eyes. "How do you know him?"

"Oh, we worked together," he said, not wanting to reveal anything further than that. It somehow felt like a stretch to even claim to being his friend - they weren't anything anymore, except strangers, maybe. "We worked at my launderette," he elaborated, waiting for her eyes to light up with recognition. It wasn't too far, maybe she frequented it. Her eyes remained dull and filmy, answering his question with less than words.

"He talked about working somewhere, a grocery store, I think."

"Oh, really?"

* * *

Only a couple blocks from the abandoned apartment, Omar was moving through the various aisles with Anzra. When he had returned from work, he insisted that they go run errands. Anzra, who had been reading a novel at the time, peeked over the spine, both of her dark brows raised. Their cupboards were all stocked with food - snacks, teas and coffee while the refrigerator was packed with fruit, meat, vegetables and milk. There was nothing that would've obligated them to go run errands. It had taken plenty of persuasion, and he had insisted that there was something he wanted to buy... but he managed to convince her.

So there he was, walking down the many aisles searching for that familiar head of bleached hair. The kind of hair that would look bright - white like a comet's nucleus - underneath the sickening fluorescent lighting in the store. But, he only saw workers stocking shelves, and none of them looked remotely like Johnny. Was it hopeless? It seemed fruitless and silly, the more he contemplated. How could he safely assume when he'd be working? He continued to scour throughout the store, much to the discontent of his fiancee. Then, as he walked into the fresh produce section, he saw a worker with their back turned to him as they added more apples in the apple section. The workers' quick hands consistently flashed in the air, holding a new apple which only seemed like a colourful shape only to set it where it belonged.

Omar checked over his shoulder, noticing that Anzra was busy in another aisle. Hesitantly, he walked up to the worker and cleared his throat, ready to ask whether they knew Johnny. There was a weak fear that nagged Omar, telling him that it would be pointless to keep looking. The worker stopped midway of picking another fruit up, and looked over his shoulder.

At the sight of his face, Omar's heart skipped a beat and his gut jumped. Johnny was looking at him, apparently just as shocked as he was. His arms went slack, and he stared at him with a frozen smile on his lips. All of a sudden, Omar felt shameful, knowing he went through all the trouble to find somebody. He must've appeared desperate and vile to have actually sought him out. But, there was no anger on Johnny's face, only the same frozen smile. Like he was looking at some mirage, one that might've not been real. And he changed, as well. His face wasn't wrinkly, but a faint frown line had begun to form between his brows and he was no longer clean shaven, either. His face was lightly stubbled, like he had forgotten to shave the prior day. Not to mention, his hair was no longer blond. His naturally dark hair had grown in, and there was no longer a hint that he had used to sport such a wild hairstyle.

"Johnny, I can't believe it's you," he said, but the words sounded fake as they left his mouth. What a bunch of bullshit. "You work here?" Johnny merely nodded, tapping at the nametag pinned onto his uniform which consisted of a white short-sleeved button up underneath a blue apron.

"What're you doing here?" he asked, his hands idly busying themselves by putting the apples away. It must've been some tactic to appear occupied, because he set the ambrosias where the smiths should've gone.

  
"I was just shopping," he shrugged, lifting the mostly empty basket he'd been carrying around. He had thrown in some jam and bread, only to convince Anzra that their shopping visit wasn't for nothing. "With my fiancee...," he added with a visible loss of enthusiasm, he really couldn't pretend that he was happy with his arrangement. He didn't want to make a big production out of it, it wouldn't have been worth the pain to lie and pretend he was content all to attempt a rise out of Johnny.

"Tania?" he asked, "has she come back?" In all honesty, he would've preferred Tania to Anzra. There was something about Anzra's two-dimensional personality that drove him away, at least Tania had dared to push boundaries. She had left him, bittersweet about many things - her father's affair being one of them - but, he missed her. She had proven herself a fun and wild being. So did Johnny. He missed all of it, he missed them.

"No, I'm not marrying her. Zaki's daughter, Anzra,"

"And how's that going?" he asked, his voice light with sarcasm. It was subtle, but Omar's paranoia caught it instantly. He was afraid of being thought of as a fool, especially by a friend. He opened his mouth to reply, but chose to change the topic.

"You know, I haven't been to your flat in awhile," he admitted, "hope things have been running smoothly without my help," he added, adding a wooden laugh. Of course he was feigning ignorance, he knew that Johnny had moved away, but he couldn't expose himself as needy. What he was doing wasn't fair nor was it honest, but he couldn't bring himself to tell the truth.

"Moved," he revealed, his eyes busy on the task at hand, he couldn't even bring himself to look at Omar, "awhile ago." Listening to the snippets of sentences, Omar waited for Johnny to invite him.

"Mhm, you're not at the same place anymore?" He asked, checking over his shoulder, finding it impossible to ignore the possibility of Anzra listening to their conversation. At that moment, he grew paranoid, even if he was aware that he didn't necessarily have to be.

"No, uh, I'm close around here," he answered, "but you know what, you should come over sometime."

"Yeah, I'd like that."

* * *

Compared to Omar's own place, Johnny's apartment possessed a certain charm that he could only dream of having. While Omar and Anzra's living room contained luxurious furniture - which included the sleek mahogany leather chesterfield and the round coffee table which often carried the weight of intelligent coffee table books. They enjoyed its appeal, but Omar always found that it felt false. It was though he was trying to 'duping' people into thinking they were smart and modern but traditional and humble... He was none of these things, and russet curtains would never fool anybody into believing so.

No, Johnny's place was charming, even if it was small - really, it had a single bathroom, which barely fit a toilet, a sink and a bath, and the living room was a small space with a bright red plaid recliner which faced nothing but a Renoir print - at least the bedroom and kitchen were large enough, even if the kitchen tile was checkered red and white and the bedroom was a simple mattress heaped high with colourful quilts. The best part was, it didn't scream 'Johnny', because Omar knew that he hated any art that wasn't kooky and that he would have invested in a larger bathroom even if it meant that his bedroom was the size of a utility closet. But, contrastingly and ironically, Johnny liked the kitsch ugly things... even if he never admitted it.

When they entered the flat, Johnny was asking about Anzra, who was at home, all while believing Omar was working. He sat down, choosing to simply shrug and say, "I don't really feel like talking about her at the moment..." It was true, Omar seldom brought touchy subjects up for conversation, which was understandable to say the least.

"I get it," Johnny sighed as he rummaged through his fridge, "did Nasser put you up to it?" Omar looked at him, a miserable expression plastered onto his face. If it had happened with Tania, it could've happened again. It wasn't that big of a stretch to Johnny, but he was wrong.

Omar, who was usually open with Burfoot in particular, admitted, "no, I did." He couldn't lie and say that he was head over heels in love, because that would've been a fib that even himself couldn't follow through with. "We found out that she's pregnant, and well, I guess that's all there is to it." In response to the news, Johnny's head moved while his jaw hung slackened... it took a lot to stun him, but... it was still a lot, knowing that Omar was still young. Johnny couldn't imagine being a father, let alone in his twenties.

"Holy Christ, man..." he whistled, his eyes sinking down to the floor, refusing to maintain any eye contact with the other man. Discussions about Omar's future often made Johnny recoil, oddly enough, it didn't when they began speaking again but, knowing that his friend allowed himself to run face-first into trouble made everything a bit harder. "That's heavy," he admitted, taking a pause from searching the contents of the fridge to remove his work apron. A sliver of skin showed, exposing a slightly paunchier Johnny than Omar remembered.

With a disdainful sigh, he shook his head, "I did this to myself. You don't have to act all sorry." He watched as Johnny rolled his eyes, grabbing a deli bag of bologna and salami. "Make me a sandwich, too?" Instead of preparing him a sandwich, he blindly tossed a to-go box of fish and chips.

"Why'd you even agree to it?"

"Because I wanted to make papa happy," he revealed, opening the white styrofoam box to reveal Johnny's unappealing and cold leftovers. "You know that he wanted to be a grandfather someday," Johnny shrugged, acknowledging the fact that what he had said was true. He had often mentioned that his father spoke about watching over his small little grandchildren. Suddenly, and bitterly, Omar gave out an exasperated sigh, "as if he'll live that long..."

Stifling a chuckle, Johnny sat himself down in the chair across from Omar. With a mouthful of bread, bologna, salami and mustard, Johnny mumbled, "I thought he wanted you to go to college first." Really, they both knew that there wasn't anything in this world that Hussein desired more than for his son to get an education. "Or did that change?"

"I don't know, Johnny," Omar replied abruptly before popping a fry into his mouth. "Stop talking about it." While the silence in the room continued, Johnny's gaze flitted about the room - everywhere, save for Omar's face. He felt disquieted by his silence, and hoped that he would ignore his plea and speak regardless of his moodiness. Unable to bear another painful second without meaningless din, he sighed, "look, I'm sorry. It's just that I've been stressed recently."

"That's what relationships do to you," Johnny cracked before popping a grease-covered finger into his own mouth.

"What? You haven't been seeing anybody?" Omar guffawed, skewering a piece of fried fish onto his fork. He truly doubted that Johnny had simply accepted loneliness. He was likely lying, or downplaying any potential love interests as mere friends. As long and persistent their relationship had been, it was not realistic to imagine that Johnny laid heartbroken at night over him. It was...complicated.

"Well, I've seen a girl. She was nice, but we weren't exactly suited for each other. And I was seeing this bloke for a bit, too," he revealed, his pale skin flushing slightly while a sheepish smile crept onto his features.

"You're dating boys?"

"Er, yes. Is that bad?" he asked, his smile quickly souring into a full-fledged scowl. It wasn't that Omar disapproved - if he did, he would be a hypocrite - but, it was difficult to believe that Johnny was purposely pursuing individuals of the same gender. "'Cause, the shit that went on between us... it wasn't just intense platonic feelings," he added gruffly.

"No, I'm not judging, I promise you," he reassured, lifting a hand up - surrendering. "It's just... odd. I never expected you actually go out and do that kind of thing." He wouldn't have done it, that was for sure. Maybe it would be better to stop thinking of Johnny as though he was identical to him. They were different people, and he needed to realize that.

"You should try it," he encouraged, giving a somewhat boyish smile. Omar could only chuckle, shrugging as though he was brushing off another one of Johnny's silly ideas. But he wasn't completely wrong, either. "Why not?"

"No, Johnny, I'm engaged," he returned quietly, while he attempted to force some pep into his voice. The action proved itself to be impossible, and Omar couldn't exactly disguise how he felt about marriage. He didn't want to be engaged, but he needed to accept his responsibility, as hard as it was. Johnny watched him, his smile quickly dissipating from his face. Omar glanced up at him, the lump in his throat making the simple act of breathing difficult. A tear ran down his face, and his hand instinctively wiped it away. Twenty minutes in Johnny's apartment was all it took to get him crying. "I'm such an idiot...," he whispered while he laid his head on the table.

"Omo, please, don't cry...," Johnny pleaded, while his hand reached over to rest on Omar's forearm. The gesture felt empty, and ineffective to Omar - terrifying him. There was only one person in the world that managed to calm him - with a smile or a hug, but even when Johnny held his arm, he was inconsolable.

He had nobody.

"It's useless. I... I fucked it all up," he ranted, lifting his head up while he brushed Johnny's hand off of his arm. "I did this to myself. I don't want Anzra. I miss you, I want you," he seethed, standing up. Spilling all of his inner thoughts did not phase Johnny in the slightest who continued to watch his meltdown. "Why did you have to leave? Your job at the launderette was perfect! You didn't have to do anything, but you had to leave, didn't you? Fuck!" His face became red, while every muscle in his face trembled violently.

"You don't get it, Omar. Working at the launderette was a good job because you were there. You were my best friend, and I wanted to help you, and you wanted to help me," he explained with the intonation of someone being prudent. "That bit isn't hard to understand," he shrugged, finishing his sandwich.

"But, you left."

"'Cause all you care about is money. Nothing was good enough for you, and I wanted a friend - a lover... But, you wanted to be nothing but a business partner...," he mumbled, glancing down at the tiled floor. "That's when I realized that we're two different people. You and me - we can't be friends."

With a heavy sigh, Omar walked to the sink. He couldn't look at Johnny, who managed to not cry when they spoke about the past. With his back turned to Johnny, he allowed himself to cry silently. The tears ran down his face consistently, but they could not alleviate the pain. "I miss you, I don't want anything else," he croaked. He glimpsed over his shoulder at Johnny who caught his gaze. "Remember when we were in school, and you were my best friend? There were so many bullies that tormented me, your friends, and they always called me names."

"That's all in the past now, we don't have to talk about it no more...," Johnny interrupted, his tone caught between guilty and panicked.

"Yeah, we do. Because I remember when Tom stole my bag, and he threw it in the toilet. I cried so hard that day, and my parents couldn't understand why I kept hanging around you lot. They thought I was insane, or incredibly lonely. But, it was because I liked you, and I would go through all that shit, just because you cared about me," he whispered, craning his neck to peer at him over his shoulder. "You were always kind towards me when we were small, and then you weren't so nice... but, you were nicer than the rest of them..," he shrugged, offering a weak smile.

For a beat, Johnny took it all in - Omars' tears, ranting and pain. Sighing, he glanced from the table to the back of Omar's head. Before he could speak, the young Pakistani headed for the door, "I should go. Thank you, for inviting me to your flat. It... it suits you," he complimented, ignoring the awkward shift between conversation topics. He drank in all of his apartment in its ugly glory before looking over at Johnny for a few seconds, waiting to see if he'd stop him. Would he really say anything after he unpacked all of his anguish? He waited, but Johnny remained silent until he left the flat.

* * *

A little more than a month later, Anzra and Omar were fully caught in the process of planning their wedding. For Anzra, it was completely vital that they impress her mother and father. They intended to book a hall - one with high ceilings and plenty of space for dancing; she had ordered an expensive merlot coloured lengha, while he intended to wear a less vibrant sand sherwani. The music had already been chosen, and Anzra knew exactly what they'd dance to.

It was all very romantic - the ideal wedding that Omar's mother would've loved. After confronting Johnny in his flat, Omar began thinking more about his childhood and the carefree joy that it had brought him. He missed the kids who used to steal his winter wear, or who called him names... not because he missed being tormented, but because he missed being able to run to his mother for comfort. He could be crying as he ran up to her, and she'd accept him with open arms.

Christ, did he miss her. But, now she was gone.

In the back room in the launderette, he was skimming through a magazine. She had given him the responsibility to choose the tablecloths. What an awful responsibility, having to look through a magazine, only to choose between two seemingly identical colours for a cloth - Navajo White or French Macaroon? They were both light shades of beige, he couldn't fathom the fact that there was even a difference. But, he took the duty seriously, and continued to take everything into account in order to choose an appropriate table cloth.

As he flipped a page, he heard the door open which prompted him to lazily check who it was via the one-way mirror. Entering the launderette with a familiarly easy-going gait was Johnny - dark haired and plain, but still, Johnny. Still sporting work attire, he tore off the apron from his torso while his other hand loosely gripped the neck of a champagne bottle. He gave the mirror a knowing grin, knowing that it had to be Omar on the other side. He held the bottle up in the air before loudly exclaiming, "let me in, man!"

And Omar, still sitting with his hands gripping the pages of the magazine smiled helplessly. He abandoned the banal and ridiculous duty of choosing a tablecloth, opting to open the door instead. Johnny waltzed into the room, confidently enough to make Omar quirk a brow. "And it only took you a whole month to talk with me," he scoffed, taking the heavy bottle from him. He inspected it and read the label aloud: "rose, huh?" With his eyes still glued onto the label, he joked bitterly, "is this what it takes to get on my good side?"

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Johnny grin at his quip. "I already know I'm on your good side," Johnny returned, "don't even try to deny it." There was something in his tone that stole the smile from Omar's face, or maybe it was the fact that he was choosing to apologize non-verbally, with champagne as some sort of gift.

"Look, you really hurt me," he admitted as he set the bottle down onto the table. "I mean, you really hurt my feelings," he admitted as he casted him an accusatory look. "And I know we always fall into this habit, where I get cross with you and you get angry, and you apologize and I give you the cold shoulder," as he paced about the small room, he could feel his breath shorten as panic seized control of his breathing.

"Ah," Johnny sighed, his arm frozen in place where he meant to bring up for a swig of champagne. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize. I'm... tired of this." As he brushed off his apology, a sullen look contorted the features on Johnny's face. "I kind of wish things were how they used to be," he blurted while he stole the bottle from the other man. The sip he took was refreshingly cool, freezing his throat, rendering him semi-calm. Still, even if he was somewhat tranquil, he couldn't ignore the deep ache in his chest. Sorrow... or something deeper, more intricate than sadness. He couldn't exactly voice his feelings, especially to Johnny, who wouldn't have understood. Suddenly, he admitted, "I'm sad, Johnny."

"So am I...," he revealed, his eyes falling onto the ground. He had a tendency to avert his gaze from any of his problems, and that included Omar's open vulnerability. The Pakistani could sense his discomfort, how his shoulders remained hunched and his fingers messed with the surface of the table - anything to distract him from the call of his true emotions.

"Christ, I just... want to give up." Trying his best to hide his shame and anguish, he returned to his seat at the table. He allowed the hole within himself to grow as he watched Johnny's jitteriness get the best of him. Before Johnny could ask him, he clarified, "I'm not going to end it. Not like my mum..." Finally, Johnny's pale fixation on the floor broke, and he peered over at him. There were tears in his eyes, not enough to escape his eyes, but enough to make them shine like two white billiard balls.

"I wish I could do something, Omo," he murmured, his voice near inaudible against the muffled din of classical music from outside the office. "But, you know I can't... bail you out of your marriage."

"I get that, Johnny. I never expected you to," he said. He watched him for a moment before giving a fragile smile. Holding onto such a glimmer of joy, Johnny returned with his own smile. A shared moment between the both of them, a gesture louder than any hug or kiss. They were both acknowledging the end of happiness, or of Omar's, at least. "I feel like I've lived for a life time, like I've wasted months of my life over some damned launderette. Do you think Salim knew?"

"No, I think you brought this onto yourself," Johnny replied while his slender hand slid atop of Omar's. He considered the contact of their hands with a mere glance, and chose to leave things be, and not to jerk his hand away in hesitance or fear. "But, I think you were also unaware of how things would pan out. You couldn't have known."

"Maybe. But, I used to think running a business was the key to true happiness. But, deep down, I knew that wasn't exactly true," he recalled as he checked out the crummy launderette behind the mirror. They were at step one - what the place had looked like months prior. The only difference was: there was new coat of paint and nicer machines. Other than that, it was all the same. "I think people get tired of seeing the same things," he mumbled into the palm supporting his face.

"Remember Charlie, the dog that my parents got for me tenth birthday...?," Johnny asked, glancing from the ruined laundromat to Omar's perplexed expression. "That dog was my cousin's. When it was a little puppy, he loved it, and he taught it tricks, and cuddled it," he recounted, only to obtain a look of disbelief from Omar. Why was he sharing an anecdote? He remembered Charlie, the sheepdog that Johnny owned, the one they used to walk around the block.

"Just wait, I have a point," he promised before continuing, "but, he got bored with it. He didn't bother to walk it, and he tried to throw firecrackers at it. So, his mum gave the dog to me?" As he became more nostalgic over the memory, the wider his smile became. "I loved that dog. You know I did. And I guess there's a lesson in there..."

"What is it?"

"Charlie only made my cousin intensely happy for a bit of time, but that dog made me comfortable and content for the longest time. Omar, a shitty job washing clothes won't make you happy, but something else will. You've just got to find it."

* * *

As his hands swam blindly through the darkness of his apartment, Omar thought to call for Anzra's aid. But, knowing she was likely sound asleep, he continued to grasp the edges of furniture and the wall to direct himself to their bedroom. After a particularly uneventful shift at the launderette, one without the visit of Johnny, he had easily become exhausted. There was nothing he wanted more than to slip underneath the covers, the worrisome thoughts of the launderette at bay.

When he entered the room, he could hear her consistent breathing paired with the occasional tossing and turning which evoked groans from the bedsprings and ruffling of the bedsheets. Not wanting to wake her, he snuck over to turn on the lamp in the farthest corner in the room. Dispelling the obscurity of the room, the lamp also casted an elongated Omar-shaped silhouette against the cream walls, which appeared gold in the lamplight. For a moment, he focused on Anzra, whose hair laid sprawled out on her pillow. Was she really what he wanted? The conversation he had had with Johnny forced him to attempt to better reflect what their relationship meant.

Maybe he was hinting at something... and it had only taken his indirect beat-around-the-bush story to make him realize it. Would marriage be the consistent joy that he had been searching for all his life? Maybe fatherhood would direct his attention away from businesses and money to what his father had been preaching all along. Even so, when he thought of little children running around the apartment, and Anzra, the predictable and doting wife cooking dinner... he felt unsatisfied. The thought continued to scare him... even after talking with Johnny. But, taking over shit-hole business did not provoke any epiphany either. He didn't want to pursue either of these paths. Looking at Anzra, he felt his heart sink... which only caused him to loathe himself more. What kind of man wanted to walk out on his fiancee? She was gorgeous, even more better-looking than Tania, and she wasn't loud or wild. But, her dullness was what disinterested him. Commitment wasn't what terrified him... it was devoting his life and availability to somebody he couldn't fathom marrying.

Just as he reached for the pyjama bottoms that laid on top of the dresser, he spotted an article of clothing near the foot of the bed. With a quick glance, he checked to see if Anzra was fully asleep before investigating the foreign object. It was a rough cotton plaid shirt, one that he couldn't identify. Omar knew what shirts he owned, and it wasn't possible that he had simply forgotten that he owned it. If that were the case, it would've been odd that it found its way onto the floor. Raising it to his nose, he took a whiff and caught hold of a scent that forced numbness all over his body. A manly cologne that smelled almost... minty.

It wasn't his cologne... Christ, it wasn't his cologne...

He needed to ask her if she was seeing someone else. He couldn't simply ignore such debaucheries as though they weren't right underneath his nose. His hand hovered above her arm, preparing to gently shake her away and present her with the proof of her infidelity. In the other room, the telephone rang, freezing him mid-way of the intended action.

Who was calling at midnight? He suspected it was Johnny, who was likely troubled by insomnia and seeking company. The thought of speaking to his friend persuaded him to abandon the interrogation he had in mind. He went to the kitchen, and picked up the phone from its cradle, "hello?"

"Omar," the voice said, revealing itself to not be Johnny, but Salim. If he was receiving a call during the middle of the night, it couldn't be good. "You idiot," he muttered - his voice just as cool and menacing as it always was. Salim's stoicism knew how to scare Omar... rendering him spineless and pathetic. "You owe your uncle rent, you know that?" He knew that he hadn't paid rent, but it was only because the launderette hadn't been meeting its quota. The specific conversation he was having with Salim was the one he had been avoiding for months.

"I don't have it, yet," he whispered, glancing over to the bedroom where Anzra continued to sleep. "I need more time, it's just that it's been slow. I need a few more days," he murmured into the receiver while his voice trembled.

"No, we're tired of your delays. You said you would get the money on time, and that was your responsibility. You're becoming another one of Nasser's problems, and I don't suspect you'd want to cross us." It was another one of Salim's threats - empty promises - they were always tactics to get Omar to run around, begging for help like some poor beggar. As afraid as he was of Salim, he knew that he simply lying for some advantage. In the family, they were always in the midst of some petty power struggle, at least papa knew to keep out of such trivialities. But, Omar wasn't, even if he was conscious of the dynamics which existed.

"Salim. I'll get the money, but you're going to have to wait," he promised, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wasn't as afraid of Salim knowing that he would have to jump another hurdle and work harder... his threats meant nothing. He was only a smidge less naive than he had been when he first opened the launderette.

"I'm not fucking around, Omar. This isn't a game anymore, and don't think I'll be merciful because we took you under our wings," he hissed, his stoicism finally shedding to reveal thinly veiled rage, "I'm serious, give me rent by next week." Before Omar could interject, he heard the loud clatter of the phone hitting the cradle. He hung up.

For a few minutes, he leaned against the counter, his hand still clutching onto the telephone while he stared forward without any particular thoughts running through his head. His mind felt like an empty room - white and vacant, begging for something to occupy its space. But, he couldn't even think any thoughts of dread or fear. He remained stiff, even as Anzra entered the kitchen, who had been apparently awakened by the phone call.

Giving out a soft yawn, she asked, "why are you awake? It's so late. Come to bed...," to which Omar replied with a strange look, as though she was only a stranger speaking to him. For some reason, he considered scaring her, to accuse her of not being loyal. He could've screamed his lungs off, prodded at her chest while tears sprang to his eyes. He could've easily packed his things, and left for good. But, he did not feel the urge to be violent, and he was not courageous enough to walk out.

"There's a shirt in our room. The one on the floor - the plaid one - that one...," he began while he set the telephone on the cradle. He searched her eyes for nervousness, the kind that would force her to share everything. Would she finally tell the truth? Would he finally have an accuse to leave their loveless relationship? "Whose is it?"

"It's yours," she lied, her eyes unfaltering... proving that as simple as she seemed, she was an excellent liar. Omar, on the other hand, was not skilled in debunking fibs. "Now, turn off the kitchen light, and come back to bed."

* * *

Right in Johnny's apartment, on the ugly recliner facing the print, Omar sat with his body hunched over as he sobbed. It was worse than how he had cried when he first visited Johnny's new apartment, because, he did not even attempt to conceal any of his suffering now. He couldn't allow a few seconds to pass before feeling the uncontrollable urge to cry - the tears came so naturally. In the kitchen, the other man was occupying himself by making tea. Every so often, he glanced up to check on Omar who had him feeling upset and apprehensive.

It had been four in the morning when Omar had knocked at his door, crying like a proper lunatic - wailing like some senile old man. He had seated himself in the chair and bawled for twenty minutes, and still, showed no signs of stopping. His crying evoked all sorts of emotions within Johnny: sympathy, even if he didn't exactly understand the source of his anguish; disgust, because of his seemingly-painful puffy eyes and runny nose and fear, which was the strongest of all the emotions. It could not be ignored, and he was concerned for Omar's well-being. Even as a child, he proved to be a problem solver... even when his father began taking to the bottle, Omar simply adapted to the situation with a defeated attitude. When he dealt with problems with a different mindset, he opposed the issue with astounding resilience. He knew that having to own a shit-hole and marrying a girl whose company left him indifferent would display the inevitably bleak future they both feared. He didn't want that for his friend...

After steeping bengal spice tea in both of the water-filled mugs, he brought the beverages over to the living room. "Here...," he mumbled with an outstretched hand, offering him the drink as the heat escaped from the ceramic and slowly burned his hand. Omar gasped loudly as he caught his breath before his gaze panned upwards to the tea. There was no doubt that he would've preferred returning to his crying, but he took the drink and rested it on his lap with both hands curled around the mug. "Why...," Johnny began before pausing. He took a moment to phrase his thoughts before saying, "I don't understand why you've come to me in the middle of the night. I know that you're... sad, and life's been tough for you, mate." Suddenly, Johnny's words were met with another sob from Omar, who looked down as to hide his face away. It was humiliating, having to beg to be let in... he didn't have any good reasons for it. "Why now?"

  
Omar took a long sip from the drink, while he peered through the swollen slits that used to be his eyes. He wasn't thinking of what to reply, he was only preparing himself for the impossible task of voicing it. His voice, weak and brittle finally emitted stammering, but he finally pulled himself together to say, "did I tell you, that I found another's man shirt in my bedroom? Anzra's a whore, and she's denying it..." As he spoke, his mouth revealed his gritting teeth, but sadness quickly replaced his expression, "I know I'm no better, though." He set down his drink on the stand before leaning back in the recliner, all while considering Johnny's stunned expression.

"Shit, Omo, did this happen tonight?"

"No, a week ago. I've just been... trying to ignore it. I can't anymore. I don't know how I could be in a relationship and still feel unloved," he muttered, his hand supporting his frowning face. Still standing across from him, Johnny felt weak from hearing the news. There was nothing he could for him, except listen to his predicament and hope that all would resolve itself. Unable to neglect the malaise in his legs, he sat down on the carpet. "I know we've established things between us, and we can't be business partners or... friends anymore, but you've helped me, you know?"

In a tone that sounded more like an affirming statement than a question, he said aloud, "I am..." Omar gave a small shrug while nodding meekly, his smile strange and wistful - Johnny didn't like it, he knew it was all a front. They were both devastated, even if they tried to convince the other that it wasn't as terrible as it was in actuality. "I miss you," Johnny acknowledged, "I miss all of it. Not just... opening the launderette and working for you. All of it." There were no further words needed to provoke the revisiting of ancient memories; like the one hot 30 degree day when they had drunk an entire case of beer as they spoke about graduation, or when Johnny had abandoned his usual friends just to keep Omar company when his father had gone missing for a few days... the glorious days of childhood and the transition into adulthood which had stolen Omar's normal family away from him and had lured Johnny into becoming a fascist.

Still sporting a bitter smile, he asked Johnny, "do you ever think that we don't remember the bad parts when we think of the best times of our lives?"

"Probably..., but the bad days then were better than our good days now," he concluded, "and I would rather be doing anything else than leading this life." Helplessly, he could feel the sting of tears and the tightness in his throat, but refused to cry. Omar, completely depleted of tears could only stare at Johnny with pity in his eyes. "I think we both have it bad," he rested his hand on Omar's knee while a grim expression contorted his features.

"I don't want to feel sad anymore," Omar refused, his knee jerking at his touch. He couldn't stand the romanticizing of his suffering - he was not an artist, who solely thrived in misery. He was simple, but he enjoyed feeling good about life, he wanted to look forward to working instead of dreading it. He knew Johnny did not like his own mediocre life, even if he pretended to, he was not much happier than he had been when he was squatting in abandoned buildings with his old gang. He could not do much to improve his situation, save for admitting that he was defeated and hurt.

For a couple of seconds, Johnny forced on a bittersweet facade - a taut smile which trembled because of its falseness. Another attempt to convince himself and Omar that he was accepting his situation and that he did not mind it. Every morning, he woke up at seven before going to work for nine hours for a pay check that scarcely covered the bare necessities. He had a nicer home, he didn't have to hang around Genghis, or Moose, or any of them... but he still couldn't extract any joy from his new situation. "You know...," he sighed, "I don't think I've been happier than when I was with you."

  
Both of Omars' brows knit together while he stumbled over the words leaving his mouth, "what're you trying to say, Johnny?"

"I don't think I want to be sad anymore, either," his friend clarified before standing up. With a mortified expression, he took the cold cups of tea from the stand before disappearing into the kitchen. Omar, who was always able to decipher Johnnys' thoughts knew exactly what he meant - as jumbled and confusing as they were. It was odd, having an opportunity in front of him, begging to be rejoiced... but, strangely, he felt reluctant. Sometimes his gut feelings led him to making the wrong decisions instead of the more pragmatic ones. He couldn't care less anymore, there was no future for him, and he was willing to gamble it all, even for the illusion that he attained happiness.

He followed him into the kitchen, watching as Johnny rinsed out the cups and cleaned the red stained ceramic. Without speaking, he wrapped his arms around his torso, his bare arms ran over the worn fabric of his sweatshirt. It tickled, and the sensation made him smile against his shoulder bone. Instead of rebuking his affections, he simply looked over his shoulder at Omar. "Do you remember when I got that shirt?"

  
"Yeah, you went to Norwich that summer. Somebody gave it to you, I don't remember who..."

"My uncle," he replied as a sigh left his body. "If I could live anywhere, I'd live there." Omar could feel Johnny's breath escape while his chest gently heaved. Soon, Omar's own breathing synced with his until they were nothing more than a single form and a single breath. While a million thoughts ran in his head, the loudest one was somehow the simplest. Despite every pulling thought that told him to step away, he was enthralled with the slope of his neck, and how the skin pulled taut around his neck muscles. His face leaned close, and his lips brushed against his stubbly jaw which made his lips sting. Under Omar's hold, Johnny froze.

"I'm sorry." He retracted his arms away from his middle, and his face pulled back to watch his perplexing expression. He could not identify any show of revolt or bitterness on his blank face until his lips slowly pressed into a wan smile. He turned around while his hands placed themselves on each side of his face, his palms were warm and much softer than he remembered, he had gone through a transformation, but he was still Johnny in his essence. "I don't want to go home," he admitted, "she'll ask so many questions, and I... can't. Let me stay."

"Okay," he replied, his voice barely above a hushed whisper. Johnny brought Omar's face close to his before pressing an assured kiss against his lip, one that made Omar think of that one night when they were returning back to the launderette, and they had kissed in the dark shadows of the alley. Those moments, before disruption of his familys' crises or the intolerant attitude displayed by Genghis and his gang, they were perfect - everything he wanted. He hated cliches, but there was no place he'd rather be than his embrace. The troublesome thoughts that chased his sanity were dispelled as soon as Johnnys' hands rested on the small of his back.

"I'm not tired," Omar admitted between slow pecks, even as he said the statement somewhat quasi-indifferently, his wandering hands revealed his intentions without as much as a word. Unlike Johnny, he could never conjure the bluntness to express the intensity of his emotions - whether it be attraction or hatred.

It was most fortunate that they both understood each other's quirks, which led Johnny to slip away from his hold to saunter backwards with open arms. With a grin, he stood at his bedroom doorway, arms still held out like some sort of allusion to those biblical portrayal of Christ - his arms always wide open. "C'mere, you sod," he beckoned with the same unfaltering smile. It was typical for Johnny to make himself out to be alluring and contrastingly ridiculous, which only fuelled Omar's appreciation for the man. Christ, did he love him.

* * *

When Omar came to, the unfamiliarity of Johnny's bare legs against his and the small room made his stomach jump. For a brief moment, he almost forgot the events of the night, and to wake up in an apartment that was not his own startled him upon waking. But, the sight of morning sunlight peeking through the tiny window's shutters was a welcome sight, compared to his own windowless flat. There were bands of light projected onto the colourful quilt and Johnny's peaceful face. He took a moment to study the complexity of his face - every tiny aspect. Some of his features had changed as the years went by, and he was no longer a young adult but a man, whose brows had grown thick and complexion rosier, but he still had the same nose and lips. And his eyes, while they remained closed and accented by a dark tinge of sleep deprivation were likely the same blue eyes as before.

This had to be happiness. No, not watching him sleep, but getting to wake up with somebody who loved with little passion... His affection was as stable as it had been when they were in school, meaning, he was not infatuated with him, he simply loved him, in the most stable way. It was beyond satisfying, knowing that he didn't have to worry anymore about whether Johnny wanted to be friends again. Of course, there was the possibility that he was being used - but, knowing him, that was unlikely.

He reached over the edge of the mattress to grab his trousers which contained his watch. Considering the other's slumber, he prudently checked the time, only to notice that it was only six. He'd have to leave soon, even when he so desperately wished to avoid the problem that he had to soon face. He needed to come up with Nasser's rent money which he managed to scrounge up, but... he could tell that he'd have to solve the same problem next month, and the month after that until he couldn't pay him. Soon, he'd have to give up the launderette due to other superior businesses in the neighbourhood popping up. The poor neighbourhood had captured the interest of renovators, and other entrepreneurs which he could never compete with. He was still only a kid, really.

As he dropped the watch, an arm draped itself around his chest accompanied by Johnny's groggy voice, "did you sleep okay?" Despite the fact that he had arrived at his apartment in the middle of the night, the amount of sleep he had gotten was pathetic, but he felt rejuvenated, nonetheless.

"Yeah, I slept fine. Uh, I have to go, though," he informed, turning over to his back to look at him. "I have to meet Nasser and Salim," he sighed, looking up at him while a pang of guilt struck his heart. Sometimes, he could be such a bootlicker.

"You know what I said about Norwich?" Despite the randomness of the question, Omar nodded. There was always a point to such questions, he wouldn't reminisce for the hell of it. "I meant it. I think we should leave London, and go live there." His sleepy expression quickly sobered up, intimidating Omar who knew he wasn't joking around. Was he insane? Could they really escape the city to live somewhere else? It was criminal: leaving his pregnant fiancee and abandoning all ownership of the launderette... he didn't know if he could do it.

"I can't do it, Johnny...," he croaked with his classic feebleness, the one that made him loathe himself. He wanted to leave, he couldn't deny it, and he was sure he could survive on the money he saved up for the wedding. It wouldn't be impossible to find another job, he knew he'd be able to do it. "What about Anzra... I can't just leave her? What about the launderette, I have to run it... and... papa. What would he say? He relies on me, I can't do it."

"Omar, your father needs to learn how to take care of himself. He loves you, and I know you love him, but he'll have to manage. Besides," he spoke as he sat up, "would you have been able to take care of him as a married man and owner of a launderette? Tell me."

"No, no, I wouldn't have been able to," Omar admitted, "but, I've brought this onto myself, haven't I?"

"Anzra got pregnant. So, you both have to have a shotgun wedding. It doesn't sound like you did this to yourself, it sounds like a lot of bad choices made by two people," he argued before earning a frustrated sigh from Omar.

"It's just how it is. My family expects me to do things, and I can't simply squander all the sacrifices they've made for me," he countered as shot out of bed to grab his clothes. Even as Johnny protested, begging him to 'sit down and speak with him', he got dressed and went for the door.

While he strapped his watch around his wrist at the entrance door, Johnny rushed out in nothing but his underwear, "I want us to be happy."

"Christ, Johnny. I have to go."

"I know, but... listen. I've done a lot of things in my time. I've left home, and... I did some bad things. But, if I had the choice to redo it all, but it meant that I would never get to see you again. I wouldn't change a thing, because I've always wanted you. I just- I thought you felt the same..."

Turning away from Johnnys' tearful eyes, Omar reminded him once more, "I really have to go."

"I know. But, you need to make a decision. I can't watch you piss your life away, I really can't."

* * *

When he entered his old childhood home, he noticed that his father was standing outside. His figure, pale and washed out, seemed to sway in the light summer breeze. But, despite his poor health, Omar thought he saw his father smile up at the sky. From inside the flat, Omar called out for his attention. "Papa, I'm here." His father's face turned around, proving that he was in fact smiling, though bittersweetly.

"What's brought you here?," he asked, "I thought you were working. Or, did they fire you?" Even if he was merely joking, he could hear contempt in his father's voice. He despised the launderette, and he despised Nasser's view on life. He was a critic, even if he was a sad man, dwelling on the past.

"I... I think you should sit down," he suggested, smiling even when he was met with a worrisome glance. "Please, sit down, papa."

"No, I'll stand if I have it my way," he refused. To stabilize himself, he gripped the balcony railing with a vice-like grip.

"I'm leaving," he said, "and I can't marry Anzra, I don't love her, she... hasn't been loyal."

His father's head snapped around while his face frozen with bewilderment. He fruitlessly attempted to speak, but he found himself mute from the news. "What does that have to do with anything? She's fucked other men, but you need to learn to forgive and move on. That doesn't mean you have to leave the city."

"Papa, I don't know how to explain it. But, I can't run the launderette anymore."

"I'm sure your uncle will find some other god-forsaken dry cleaners' you can take on," he returned as he continued to watch the trains on the platform rush by. Omar wanted him to face him as he told him the truth.

"Look at me."

His father grumbled to himself before swivelling around to look him in the eye. Omar couldn't help but cry, knowing that he was officially saying 'good-bye' to his father, even if he didn't quite understand the seriousness of the situation. "I'm leaving with Johnny, and I know that you look at him, and you only see that boy throwing bottles and... condemning us. But, he's changed, even if you'll never believe it..."

The tears on his father's face glimmered while he shook his head, ashamed of his son. Did he fail him? Where had he gone wrong? "No, Omar, I'll never believe it."

"I want to be happy," he gasped, just short of crying. He promised himself that he wouldn't cry, but it was impossible, knowing that his father had mapped out his entire life for him, and now he was running away for good.

His father continued to cry, his shaking hands holding onto the railing while he turned away from his son. Maybe it wasn't too late, maybe Omar could promise that he'd stay if it made his father truly happy. Hussein moved away from the railing and collapsed into his sons' arms, bawling as though he was a small child. He was truly conflicted, but in such a way that he swore his soul was tearing into two. He could not decide what he wanted for his son, and what he wanted for himself. "Omar, I've only wanted you to be happy," he whispered, "I guess I have to trust that you'll do the right thing, and do what makes you content."

"Dad..."

"Go with him. Just know that you'll always be my son."

* * *

While Omar's car perused the countryside, the sun began to set. A powerful roseate light was cast upon the plainness of the fields, and elongated shadows stretched themselves out. Everything that would've appeared average and unremarkable in the daylight was attaining the peak of their beauty. Even the inside of the car looked better sunset-tinted - the dashboard, the console... all of it, except for Johnny. The sunlight did not change him, only complimenting him.

Beside him, Omar was losing himself in the overwhelming sensation of freedom. He couldn't voice his happiness into words, only into smiles that crept onto his face. No words were exchanged because they would have been weak and useless when it came to expressing the joy they both shared. They only needed to share a look to truly understand the importance of the moment. And Johnny's hand rested on his right one, always surprisingly warm and soft, the epitome of the reassurance and affection that he had sought for all his life.

Up ahead laid the country roads that would eventually lead to Norwich, the place they would soon call home. Everything around Omar was strange, and he had never known anything other than the narrow streets of London. All he knew was noise, sounds and smell which were all part of an overstimulating city. But, oddly enough, it felt as though he was being welcomed home.


End file.
